


Hallow and Having Hallowed on an Evening in October

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-31
Updated: 2005-10-31
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle





	Hallow and Having Hallowed on an Evening in October

Crowley shook his head. “He’s never going to do it.”

“Patience is a virtue, my dear,” Aziraphale drawled. “And it’s only been an hour. See?” He gestured idly, but had to admit: Wittenberg was quite charming after sundown. Each waning wisp of light became tangled in the high spires of Castle Church, and the oft-muddied streets were crisp with frost. “He’ll come.”

“What makes you so sure? He wasn’t even tight when you talked to him.”

Aziraphale’s smile was wrought with more embarrassment than mirth.

“Oh.” Crowley paused. “I see.”

“But really, relative drunkenness has so very little to do with it. After that strong and progressive a notion had settled in his head, there were no alternatives.”

“Was it anvil of fate this time, or perhaps the axe of virtue?”

“Come,” Aziraphale sighed. “This can’t be easy for him. Far from it.”

“A theologian with a crisis of conscience?” Crowley snorted. “That ought to make the morning gossip. ‘Ninety-foot Eel Spotted in Aberdeen,’ ‘White Roses Converse with Brighton Barmaid,’ and ‘German Monk Not to be Indulged by Future Diet,’ see full story on page five.”

“Shh,” Aziraphale said, and raised a silencing hand. “Listen.”

A minute passed, and then another. The narrow enclave echoed with the clip-clopping hooves of a coach-and-two, and a stout, stalwart man ambled forth from the cab. His woolen cloak hung in dark, heavy folds about his shoulders, and a grin creased his lips. He hummed beneath his breath; locks of hair fell from his cap; his eyes were bright.

“What’s he waiting for?” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said, after a moment, but by then the little man had quickly coaxed himself up the stairs. With a surmising glance to the encroaching lengths of shadow, he drew a hammer and nail from the recesses of his cloak, and began to tack a thick sheaf of parchment to the expanse of oaken paneling before him.

It was not long before a glaring face peered out from the doors. “What in _heaven_ ’s name do you think you are doing, sir?” it demanded.

Crowley crossed his arms. “He won’t say it.”

“Say it,” Aziraphale hissed.

But the little man retreated to his coach and clip-clopped into inky darkness.

Crowley was unable to stifle his laugh. “If you ask me, ‘trick or treat’ sounds a bit dodgy, anyway.”

“I thought you said it was better than ‘Am I bovvered?’”

“Point.”

“Well, there’s always next year,” Aziraphale said as they started down the road together, “but please don’t let’s reconsider the whole ‘bobbing for bratwurst’ idea. It rather makes my stomach churn.”


End file.
